It is here in this pocket Get it out."

The tariff appears, and with it the fact that he had demanded just what
the boatman of the ballad received in gift,--thrice his fee.

The driver mounted his seat, and served us so faithfully that day in
Padua that we took him the next day for Arqua. At the end, when he had
received his due, and a handsome _mancia_ besides, he was still
unsatisfied, and referred to the tariff in proof that he had been
under-paid. On that confronted and defeated, he thanked us very
cordially, gave us the number of his brougham, and begged us to ask for
him when we came next to Padua and needed a carriage.

From the Chapel of the Annunziata he drove us to the Church of Santa
Giustina, where is a very famous and noble picture by Romanino. But as
this paper has nothing in the world to do with art, I here dismiss that
subject, and with a gross and idle delight follow the sacristan down
under this church to the prison of Santa Giustina.

Of all the faculties of the mind there is none so little fatiguing to
exercise as mere wonder; and, for my own sake, I try always to wonder at
things without the least critical reservation. I therefore, in the sense
of deglutition, bolted this prison at once, though subsequent
experiences led me to look with grave indigestion upon the whole idea of
prisons, their authenticity, and even their existence.

As far as mere dimensions are concerned, the prison of Santa Giustina
was not a hard one to swallow, being only three feet wide by about ten
feet in length. In this limited space, Santa Giustina passed five years
of the paternal reign of Nero (a virtuous and a long-suffering prince,
whom, singularly enough, no historic artist has yet arisen to
whitewash), and was then brought out into the larger cell adjoining, to
suffer a blessed martyrdom. I am not sure now whether the sacristan said
she was dashed to death on the stones, or cut to pieces with knives; but
whatever the form of martyrdom, an iron ring in the ceiling was employed
in it, as I know from seeing the ring,--a curiously well-preserved piece
of ironmongery. Within the narrow prison of the saint, and just under
the grating, through which the sacristan thrust his candle to illuminate
it, was a mountain of candle-drippings,--a monument to the fact that
faith still largely exists in this doubting world. My own credulity, not
only with regard to this prison, but also touching the coffin of St.
Luke, which I saw in